Cool Hand
by sian22
Summary: 'Dear Gods did he not know any better after all this time than to bet with Damrod? ' Faramir deals with the repercussions of his actions. Inspired by Annafan's wonderful betting rangers in "A Tight Space". T for language.


Dear Gods did he not know any better after all this time than to bet with Damrod?

The Captain of the Ithilien Rangers began to shake his head but quickly thought better of the gesture.

In a moment of ill-considered weakness (well, to be precise several moments) interspersed by five or six goblets of Anborn's execrable latest vintage Faramir had agreed to the wager.

There were practical rules to parties in the Refuge. One did not, as a rule, mix alcohol with arrows. Nor daggers nor any other long pointy thing made of steel no matter how entertaining the anticipated contest. Faramir was quite proud of his yearly summary to Minas Tirith. To date, unlike his brother's , there were no reports of drunken idiots needing stitching. To the maintenance of this glorious, and oft-noted, safety record he had allowed the dice and cards and running bets.

Sitting as still as possible for a moment he had leisure to ponder that there was it appeared a reason why folk did not usually make brandy out of crabapples.

Mablung and Leuic had found an old abandoned homestead closer to the river. In high excitement and enthusiasm they had picked the trees clean and raided the grass for the windfall. It had been rather nice to have fresh jam for breakfast for several weeks and the tarts had been delightful. Afterwards the remaining rotten, sliding stinking mess had gone into Anborn's still.

Gah…his stomach twisted at the memory. The concoction had tasted like the sourest, sickly cross between an apple and black roofing slate. Or at least the sort of the sharp, bitter, grainy taste that he imagined slate to taste like. Did not nature warn her denizens of danger through form and colour? Really one should know better than to drink anything coloured orange.

It was, judging by the scarce response to breakfast call that morning, also positively lethal.

Tea and kahva, large volumes of water and just a single slice of bread had been his approach on heaving unsteadily to his feet that morn. Faramir rested his elbows on the scrubbed wooden table top and looked around blearily at the sea of quiet and quietly ripe bodies. Surely this was some weapon of the Enemy? Had all the hordes of Mordor descended not a man of them would have roused. He faintly wondered if it were possible for copper tubing and water to be suborned by evil.

On (not quite) sober reflection, the young Captain was not entirely certain that the casualties in an attack would have been any fewer. He had checked. Renil, their Healer, had reported no actual cases of outright death. Near-death, but nothing that need sully his report.

Faramir took a long slow steadying breath. Looked up to find his immensely tall and lugubrious First Lieutenant standing expectantly beside. Madril rocked slightly on his massive feet and waited patiently for orders. Following the veteran's motion made his stomach lurch warningly again.

"Later Mad." He waved his hand gingerly in lieu of nodding. _Surely the bugger wasn't doing it deliberately?_

"Won't get any better for waiting if I say so Sir." Madril gave an impressive shrug. He looked fine. Lucky bastard had had the watch.

Faramir paled. _Valar_ the man was right and now Damrod was walking purposefully toward them, flipping a dice over and over in his good hand and grinning as if Kementari herself had descended to bless his precious ivories. The grizzled Second Lieutenant looked to be high good humour.

The Captain groaned and placed a faintly trembling hand to his aching brow. It was always a dangerous thing to expose the soft underbelly to ones foes. There was no hope for it now. None of them would forget in the painful light of morning.

He looked up, licked lips suddenly gone dry as a snake's teat and spoke.

"Fuck-off."

Two words. Precise and crisp and clear. Delivered with one eyebrow raised and sufficient menace to make Damrod step back a pace.

A certain satisfactory silence descended as around the cavern shocked expressions reined.

Of course regrettably it was the calm before the storm. Those that were mobile stood. Grins spread like flame and man after man came to attention and clapped as loudly as he dared.

The Lieutenant, not one to gloat beyond the necessary, whistled abruptly for full quiet. "Shut up yer daft buggers or we'll have the bloody hordes of Morgoth right down upon us."

The silence that descended was a mercy. It dawned upon Faramir that Damrod might be doing it in consideration of his boss's head. Unusually generous for the wiley and cutthroat Ranger.

As the older man's deep wrinkles pulled into a crooked smirk a scarred and callused hand raised to clap his Captain a little gently on the shoulder. Faramir felt a dawning sense of doom. No such luck.

"There you go, Sir. 'Tweren't so very hard." The gravelly baritone that had set fear into many a recruit swelled to fill the cavern.

"Only nineteen more times to go."

.

.


End file.
